


to remind is to learn

by darkmillennium



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hurt Adam Milligan, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Michael Possessing Adam Milligan, POV Adam Milligan, Post-Episode: s15e08 Our Father Who Aren't in Heaven, Post-Lucifer's Cage (Supernatural), adam and michael are both learning step by step how to do things and i love them for it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:48:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25944619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkmillennium/pseuds/darkmillennium
Summary: Look. Adam, realistically,knewthat Hell would have its aftereffects.He just wishes it would happenless.
Relationships: Michael & Adam Milligan, Michael/Adam Milligan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 129





	to remind is to learn

**Author's Note:**

> if this seems like a random word dump it's because this is me attempting to beat the writer's block that crawled its way into my brain and beats me with a stick while my mind sits rocking in a fetal position
> 
> anyways enjoy the story!!!

_“Kid.”_

Look. Adam, realistically, _knew_ that Hell would have its aftereffects. He knew that when they’d come barreling out of the Cage and back onto Earth, only for him and his senses to get assaulted by a sun too bright for his vision and color too vivid for his brain to process. It had taken two days or so for him to get accustomed to the shapes and shades of Earth once more, and, even then, it was with Michael’s grace acting like a shield until they were both certain that Adam wouldn’t be cringing away from everything that he looked at.

He just wishes it would happen _less._

Now, granted, it doesn’t happen all that often—nowadays, it really only happens if too much starts going on around him all at once—but, sometimes, it just flares up. And everything gets too _bright,_ too _loud,_ too... _everything._

_“Adam.”_

Adam hates it.

Damn it, he _just_ got out of Hell. He wants to be able to enjoy things without the fear of something potentially tripping some sort of wire in his brain and his mind deciding to make him miserable for the next two hours or so. Sometimes longer. He doesn’t _want_ to take breaks to shove the heels of his palms into his eyes and pretend like he can’t hear the heartbeat of the elderly woman that lives two floors beneath him. It’s just another result of the Cage—Adam wants to go, go, go until there’s nowhere left to run. Anything to wash away the sensation of confinement that seeps from his heart into his bloodstream until there’s nothing else left to feel.

He can’t do that, though. Wants to prove to himself that he doesn’t have to.

_Two hands wrap around his arms, thumbs gently pressing into the space where his wrist connects his arm and his hand. Adam sees spots flash in the blackness of his eyelids with how hard his own hands are pressing into his eyes._

Adam had only had the TV volume up too loud from the evening before. That was _it._ He’d been watching a movie with Michael and turned it up a little bit more to appreciate the soundtrack that had been playing in the background, because he’d liked it. And then he’d turned the TV on this morning, forgetting that he hadn’t turned the volume back down, only for his ears to be assailed by the clamor of some battle scene in whatever shitty movie had been playing before he’d dove for the remote and smashed his thumb onto the power button. 

Now, he’s here—standing upright in the middle of the living room, trying to block out the world after his eyes had started flickering around and picking up on every little minuscule detail of the room all at once. His ears have stopped ringing, by this point, but he can hear _everything,_ from the dog barking in some room across the street to the roar of the vacuum cleaner three doors down. He’d try to focus inwards, on himself, but there’s no point to it—listening to the sound of blood rushing through his own veins and his heart thudding in his chest only serves to make the feeling of wanting to curl up into a ball grow stronger. 

Adam almost wants to retreat inwards, into the comfort and safety of his own mind, effectively shielded by Michael’s grace. 

He doesn’t. 

Damn it, he survived a _thousand years_ in Hell. He can survive a fucking _TV._

_“Kid,” Adam hears, again, and the hands slowly begin to pry his own away from his eyes. He’s no match for an archangel’s strength, he knows that, but he could tell Michael to let go. He knows Michael would, if he only asked._

_He doesn’t do that, though. Instead, Adam keeps his eyes closed, letting Michael slip his palms from the base of his hands into his palms, holding them in a way that somehow manages to be both feather-light and firm at the same time._

Somewhere, Adam knows, deep down, that this is still worth it. The burn of his hyper-awareness of the world is still better than the Cage, any day. It’s _better._

It’s just...not the best. 

_Michael’s grip tightens, enough to remind Adam that he’s there. It isn’t like Adam could ever forget—how could he, when Michael was the only constant he’d had for centuries?—but the physicality of it is a gesture that he appreciates, that he’s grateful for._

_Even as his thoughts continue to run a mile a minute, he feels the warmth of Michael’s grace pulse out a calmness that cascades through his soul like a fast-acting drug, making his own grip tighten in return even as his shoulders begin to lose their tenseness, millimeter by millimeter._

It isn’t that Adam necessarily feels guilty for accepting the metaphorically proffered crutch, because he doesn’t. But he is, at his core, a person of independence—born of his own personality and the long nights that his mother would spend away at work, forcing her to rest in the daytime to catch up on sleep. He used to wonder if there would always be some little voice at the back of his mind that reminded him that, technically, whatever task he was completing at the time was something that could be done _alone._

And Adam could, couldn’t he? He could bring himself down from this alone, if he needed to. If he wanted to. 

_Michael’s never been one for needless chatter, not really. He’s always let his actions speak for themselves, and Adam has always read them better than Michael’s words, anyway. He knows Michael’s idiosyncrasies like the back of his hand._

_The kiss that’s pressed to the space between Adam’s brows speaks volumes—entire languages, compressed into a singular movement. He hones in on it, letting it wash over him like a great deluge, allowing it to help chase away the stiffness of his rigid body. He focuses on the way Michael fingers brush the inside of his wrist, on the shift of his grace as it twines impossibly more around his soul, enveloping him in pacific intent._

_Michael’s version of peacefulness, as gentle as he always tries to make it, never fails to remind Adam of the moment before lightning strikes—electrically charged, still crackling with power that can, will,_ should _shake the sky with the intensity of it._

_Maybe others would consider it more intimidating than serene, but, to Adam, it’s the most at peace he’s ever felt in his life._

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? That whole thing about _being alone_ that never shut up inside his brain. 

Adam doesn’t _want_ to be alone.

_“Open your eyes, Adam,” Michael says, and Adam knows it’s a request, even if it’s said like a statement. He can always hear it, no matter which voice Michael’s using—the vocal cords of his apparition or his real one. He just knows._

He hasn’t ever truly _wanted_ to be alone. 

_His ears have finally steeled themselves, letting him focus on the room around him instead of everywhere and all at once. He’s worried that his eyes will not do the same._

And, he can _feel_ it—neither has Michael. 

_But, Michael’s grace has done this much. His touch has done this much. And, above all else, Adam trusts him._

_He trusts him._

It’s probably one of the things that allowed them to get along so well even when they’d originally disliked each other, all those years ago. And that was odd, wasn’t it? To be constantly exasperated at someone and still acknowledge that they understand you, better than anyone else in that moment, no matter what else happened. 

That understanding went both ways. 

And so did this. 

_With a final squeeze given to Michael’s resolute clasp, he takes a deep breath._

It seemed like they _both_ just needed a reminder, sometimes. 

_Adam opens his eyes._

**Author's Note:**

> comments are super appreciated!!! thank you for reading :)
> 
> my tumblr is @adammilligan!


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